Wicked Games
by insiqnificant
Summary: When Marilyn is caught after an attempted murder-suicide, she is immediately thrown into Briarcliff and becomes known as "the female Bloody Face". But what happens when she meets the man himself, and discovers that he's innocent? Secrets are revealed about Marilyn's dark past, as well as the asylum's hidden intentions. At Briarcliff nothing is as it seems, as everyone will find out


**Wicked Games**

I. Terror

* * *

I come to in the middle of a wooded area, groggy and confused. There's an overwhelming smell of blood around me, so strong I gag. I take a deep breath and look around, then feel a box of matches in hand.

I look down and notice it—from head to toe I'm soaked in blood, sticky and oozing from wounds in my skin...my_ arms_. But, this doesn't make sense. Some of this _couldn't_ be mine! With shock and fear clouding my senses, I do the only thing that's reasonable to me—I wrench my shirt and pants off of my body and sprint towards my house. The leaves covering the ground make it easy to miss holes and rocks, and I trip the whole way there.

My heartbeat quickens when I see the familiar white house, small and radiating such a strong evil my stomach churns, and I can feel my life draining from the gashes in my arms. Cop cars are surrounding the property like something out of a television show, firemen are trying to get the fire under control. The fire that—I shake my head. _No_. I didn't do this. I—I wouldn't do this!

"No," I whisper so quietly I can't even hear myself. My voice doesn't even sound like it belongs to me; maybe a five-year-old, yes, but not a girl of sixteen.

"Hey!" I raise my head and see a man with a badge coming straight for me. "You can't be here. This is a closed-off crime scene."

My stomach drops. I feel the rising bile teasing my throat like acid. Crime scene. The fire is now out. A gurney is pulled from the house by a short, stocky man in a paramedic uniform, like the ones on that medical show my father would watch. But then two more come, and with it, two more paramedics in those stupid fucking uniforms on that stupid fucking show my stupid fucking father would watch.

The cop turns around and stares at me with wide eyes, as if he had just figured out the secret to curing cancer. Suddenly, before I can protest, I'm being forced into a gurney. The same paramedics that had carried my family out of the house are strapping my legs to the same kind of clothed-over metal. I feel something slide into the crook of my arm, under the skin. Cold.

I _try_ to scream, to tell them "No! I didn't do it!", but nothing comes out. All I can do is cry, and that's exactly what I do. My whole insides feel...weak, like there aren't any bones in my body. So, I blubber silently to myself as I get lifted into the ambulance.

* * *

I rise from the calming waves of sleep and am immediately hit with a strong headache. A young girl is wrestling a long blue gown through my arms, stretching the lacerations under the multiple wraps of gauze.

"I got it," I mutter slowly, urging my wrists out of her grip. I pull the gown down my mutilated arms and over my head.

She lifts my lower body up and rolls the bottom of the skirt down to my ankles.

"This is really itchy," I complain groggily, tugging the clothing back up to mid-thigh to scratch at my knee.

The nurse sits down in the chair next to me and smirks, "I would be lucky to even get that if I were you."

"I've never known what it is to have luck," I reply, shaking my head back and forth.

She gets up from her chair and, after walking over toward the window sill, turns the volume up on the radio.

"Ooh!" the woman shrieks, "I love this song! Ya know, my boyfriend proposed to me while this was playing in the background."

She sways her hips to the music and mouths the words silently. I stare at her porcelain skin and blonde hair, a sadness pumping through my veins. I'll never be able to look like that. I'm reminded every day by this body I'm stuck in. This spoiled skin.

The music stops a few minutes later, and the nurse looks at me sadly.

"I'm sorry, Marilyn," she says, handing me a tissue.

I bring a hand up to my cheek and pull away to find wet fingers. I'm crying.

"You know, I really like your name. Did your parents name you after Marilyn Monroe?" I refuse the tissue and instead wipe my eyes on the collar of my gown as she continues speaking. "She's my idol, and the reason I got my hair blonde in the first place."

"That's good," I say solemnly as my eyes begin to droop.

There's a long pause before the nurse finally speaks again.

"Your families—they've all hurt you haven't they?"

"You could say that..."

"So, you did the only thing you could to protect yourself—you killed them to make it look like an accident. That's the reason you haven't been caught until now, right?" She didn't take a break to let me explain. "I read your chart, and it says right here that you've been in and out of psychiatric hospitals since you were _six years old_. Each time it was because you attempted to kill yourself or hurt others. You would always have these cuts when they searched you, most self-inflicted—"

"—They should have kept me in there, but they didn't want to deal with me. So they sent me off to another family, thinking that it would solve the problem," I interrupted her, then shook my head and chuckled solemnly. "I'm nothing but a victim of circumstance, and my life is a long string of terrible luck."

* * *

After laying in the hospital for two days with no company, no entertainment at all, I'm thoroughly bored. The doctor hasn't even spoken to me, and it confuses me to no end. I thought doctors were, at the very least, _supposed_ to act interested in their patients. Suddenly, the devil himself walks in and tells me that I am to be sent to Briarcliff until I'm mentally stable enough to stand trial...for the murders of twenty people.

"No," I protest loudly; a set of cops step through the doorway and, after lifting me to my feet, wrench my hands behind my back and secure them with leather cuffs.

"Not too tight," the doctor instructs smugly, "her wounds cannot start bleeding again."

I thrash around in the mens' grip, kicking my feet wildly toward the man who I was supposed to trust with my health. "Why are you doing this?" I yell at him as the cops pull me out of the hospital room.

He stares at me for a second, a misery in his eyes that even I can't understand.

"One of your victims was my own daughter."

My heart stops for a beat and my eyes widen with the realization that I'm going somewhere that I shouldn't be going. I killed them in self-defense. It wasn't my fault...I was trying to stop them from hurting other people.

We exit the hospital and an ambulance-like vehicle is sitting under the terrace. I've seen these in movies before. They use them to haul dangerous people, right?

"Am I dangerous?" I ask ignorantly to the officer on my right.

"You're known as the female version of Bloody Face, if that answers your question," he responds, looks down at me with sorrowful eyes.

I bet he has a daughter that's my age.

"But he murdered women and skinned them. I just—"

They attempt to lift me into the metal room of the vehicle, but I viciously thrash around and put my bare foot against the edge to push all of my weight against them. I look over at the man on my right with a curious expression on my face, so he answers my question after a few more seconds of struggle.

"He doesn't have a dangerous mental disorder. You do, which makes you an even larger threat, whether your crimes were minimal or not. Now get in."

The two men push me into the back of the vehicle and I sit down on the metal bench.

So, I'm dangerous? Dangerous enough to have my own miniature police squad? But I—I would never hurt anybody. No, Bloody Face, he hurt innocent women...But, what did that man say? He doesn't have a dangerous mental disorder?

...Why is he at Briarcliff, then?

* * *

_The metal benches of this truck aren't good at all. They hurt really bad._

_How long have we even been traveling? Seriously, it's boring. The driver really needs to speed up. I wanna get this over with._

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my thighs, my chin in my hands. My eyes droop wearily, and I wonder what the hell's in the shots they've been giving me that's been making me so _sleepy_. That's all I've wanted to do for the past three days.

"Hey." One of the men sitting beside me roughly elbows me in the ribs. "We're here. Get up."

It's obvious I have no choice in the matter, because I'm not given enough time to blink before they're hoisting me up and pushing me down the steps of the opened door.

The sunlight is harsh against my unadjusted eyes, and they burn and water as they grow used to the brightness of the outdoors. Murmuring and the flashing of cameras belong to the people lined up against the sides of the steps. Am I really this popular?

As I stumble up towards the entrance of the asylum, my eyes lock with a blonde, aging woman dressed in a nun's outfit. She stares at me, her eyes dark and empty, her gaze following my footsteps until I walk through the doors to my new home.

I examine the inside of this place as much as I can, breathing in the poisonous smell of death and lost hope. There's an eeriness to the place that I can't seem to shake off. An evil, and I know a thing or two about that.

The cops drag me down a hallway, and I reluctantly let them in fear of punishment, not counting the one I had been given.

* * *

**A/N: why? why whY1..1! wwhyY WHYYYyyyyyyyy1!?/**

**Why have there been nO KIT FANFICS YET? I dunno maybe its a good thing so then i can be the first person ever to write a good kit/oc fanfic whats up with my grammar evan peters is my boyfriend in my head and i have a crush on someone and it makesme feel like im cheating on him help me pls**

**I watched Season 1 of AHS on Netflix, and I got really curious about what Season 2 was about so I watched the first three episodes and I was like: "Yeah, I gotta get him a woman." Cause—PLEASE DON'T HURT ME—I don't really like Lana or Grace that much at all. Personal preference/opinion. Don't worry.**

**But I just wonder how long my obsession with AHS will last before I move on to something else. Ever wander why I don't finish fanfics? I have an eight second attention span. Not even kidding. It makes me angry.**

**Anyways I would like it if you would give this a chance. Ask anyone: my OC's are pretty regular tricks that add a twist to the story. So yeah. At least stay for a few more chapters, and if you don't like it then, you don't have to come back. I promise.**

**see ya butts.**


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